


Pub Night Coda

by ImpishTubist



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Language, M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-16
Updated: 2011-12-16
Packaged: 2017-10-27 10:12:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/294598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpishTubist/pseuds/ImpishTubist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>De-anon from <a href="http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/13188.html?thread=73287044#t73287044">this prompt on the kinkmeme</a>: “Lestrade returns to 221b after a night at the pub with John and then climbs into bed with Sherlock. Tipsy!Lestrade meets Sleepy!Pliable!Sherlock. Fluffy sex ensues.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pub Night Coda

“...and that’s when he finally decided that perhaps using live mice probably wasn’t the wisest of ideas,” John said, fiddling with his key for a moment before finally managing to slip it into the handle and unlocking the door. Lestrade snorted, and followed him on slightly unsteady legs into the flat.

“Your flatmate’s insane, I hope you realize.”

“Says the man sleeping with him,” John said, jabbing him in the shoulder with a bit more force than was necessary. Lestrade swayed slightly, and then they both dissolved into helpless laughter.

“God, I’m gonna regret this in the morning,” John mumbled, swiping a hand across his face. “I’d better get to bed; minimize the damage while I can. Thanks for the drinks, Greg.”

Lestrade gave him a two-fingered salute and mumbled, “Not a problem. G’night, John.”

They went their separate ways - John up the stairs to his own room, and Lestrade through the kitchen and down the corridor to Sherlock’s. He fumbled with the door handle for a moment longer than he should have, but eventually got it open and slipped into the detective’s room with what he felt was a minimal amount of noise.

Once Lestrade’s eyes adjusted to the dark, he saw that Sherlock was already in bed, curled up on the right side, as was his norm. Lestrade stripped down to the cotton tee under his button-down and tugged off his trousers before slipping in behind Sherlock, who was roused by the dip in the bed. He always had been a light sleeper, even on nights when he was making up for four days’ worth of lost sleep. Or was it five, now? Lestrade couldn’t recall. It’d been a while, at any rate.

It’d been a while, too, since they’d had a night together, and Lestrade pressed his lips to the back of Sherlock’s neck in greeting, savoring the feel of the body next to him. Sherlock let out a slow sigh, and his mumbled, “You’re drunk,” was more a statement than an accusation as Lestrade wrapped an arm around his waist, pulling him so they were back-to-chest.

“Only a bit,” Lestrade murmured, lips crackling against the cool skin of Sherlock’s shoulder. He placed his hand flat on Sherlock’s stomach, stroking the soft fabric of his tee with his thumb. The skin underneath the shirt twitched and tightened under his touch, and he skimmed over the ridges and valleys of Sherlock’s taut abdomen.  “Hello, gorgeous. Missed you.”

“Mmph. Missed you, too,” Sherlock mumbled, turning his head further into the pillow, tumbling quickly back towards sleep. Lestrade pushed aside Sherlock’s shirt to run calloused fingertips over the skin of his stomach, warmed by hours spent in the bed.

“Productive day?” Lestrade asked as he nosed aside the hair at the nape of Sherlock’s neck, breathing in the scent of musk and soap, and pressed his lips to a patch of bare skin. It leaped to life at his touch, goosebumps erupting under the flick of his tongue. Sherlock hissed, and Lestrade’s cock gave an interested twitch. He shifted so that he was lined up with the cleft of Sherlock’s arse and began to move against it in lazy circles; Sherlock let out a soft grunt.

“Remains...t’be seen,” Sherlock mumbled, exhaustion slurring his words even as his body stirred under Lestrade’s ministrations. He reached around and put his hand on Lestrade’s hip, applying pressure, gently pressing the older man closer to him. “Experiments will take some time to... _ah_...complete.”

“I see,” Lestrade murmured. He turned his head to the side and rubbed his jaw, roughened with a smattering of stubble, along the junction where Sherlock’s shoulder met his neck.

“Go well?” Sherlock whispered, his voice sandpapery with sleep and growing arousal.

“Hm?” Lestrade said, one thumb still idly stroking Sherlock’s stomach while he lifted his head and pressed his lips to the spot just below Sherlock’s ear, catching the sensitive flesh between his teeth. Sherlock let out a low hiss and tipped his head back, allowing Lestrade better access.

“Pub night,” Sherlock muttered, and Lestrade ran a tongue over the hard lines of his neck that leaped out with every word. “Went well?”

“Mm,” Lestrade hummed in assent, sliding his fingers under Sherlock’s waistband and brushing the heel of his hand along Sherlock’s half-hard cock. He wrapped his hand around it, feeling it harden further, and Sherlock gave a muffled groan. The sound was low, and the vibrations of it sent a rush of heat to his own groin. “John out-drank Sally, and was still...mmph...more coherent than the rest of us combined when we, uh, left.”

“Please,” Sherlock said in a low voice, rocking slowly into the palm of Lestrade’s hand, “don’t talk about...my flatmate...when your hand is.... _oh_....down my pants.”

“Duly noted,” Lestrade said, releasing Sherlock long enough to push the pajama bottoms off his hips and down. His own shorts followed and he settled once more against Sherlock’s back, both of them on their sides, and nudged apart Sherlock’s thighs so that he could slide his cock between them. Lestrade melded their hips together and began to rock, Sherlock falling into the rhythm that he set, carried along by Lestrade’s deft hands and lethargic thrusts.

It was a measure of Sherlock’s exhaustion that he failed to hold back his sighs and moans, as he usually did, and they tumbled from his lips to disperse throughout the darkened room. The raw sounds sent a shiver down Lestrade’s spine, and he quickened his pace. The bed creaked, and Sherlock turned his face fully into his pillow, stifling staccato whimpers of _Jesus - Greg - oh!_

Lestrade reached around and took Sherlock in hand again, brushing the pad of his thumb over the leaking head. Sherlock’s thighs clenched around him as their hips rolled together, and the combined heat and extra friction carried Lestrade to a swift release. He muffled it against Sherlock's elegant neck, biting into the soft skin, and it was half a dozen more pulls before Sherlock followed, spending himself over Lestrade’s fist and his own belly with a drowsy, _”Fuck.”_

“Cruel,” Sherlock murmured when he could speak again.

“Am I?” Lestrade said softly, pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s shoulder, tasting salt and sweat.

“Mm.” Sherlock reached for his discarded pajama bottoms and cleaned his thighs and abdomen before chucking them across the room and settling back into the cocoon the bed had made around the weight of his body. “Y'know m’too tired to resist you.”

“Did y'want to?” Lestrade whispered against the sweet skin. Sherlock turned his head finally, for the first time that evening, and looked at his partner.

“No,” he said, and captured Lestrade’s lips in a lazy kiss. He was pliant, and Lestrade easily took control of it, exploring the usually-wicked mouth with great care. But Sherlock’s response dwindled, and when Lestrade broke the kiss he saw that his partner was half-asleep again already. Sherlock's eyes had dropped closed, and he rested his forehead against Lestrade’s. “Could never resist you.”

“You're too kind,” Lestrade murmured, and kissed his forehead before rearranging Sherlock into his former position - on his side, elbows tucked close to his chest and knees drawn up. He fitted himself along Sherlock’s back and wrapped an arm around his waist. “Sleep, sweetheart.”

Sherlock was out before the words had left Lestrade’s lips.


End file.
